


in the fall of a sparrow

by sometimeseffable



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Fall, Raphael!Crowley, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), author has no idea how angelic hierarchy works and is too afraid to ask, author is aware raphael is an archangel and chooses to ignore that, heaven meetcute, seraph!crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 06:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20372008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sometimeseffable/pseuds/sometimeseffable
Summary: There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow - HamletA look at the creation of two angels, a meeting, and the connection between them.





	in the fall of a sparrow

**Author's Note:**

> Needed a little break from working on Grey and wandered off into God's POV. Uh. Enjoy?

When the first angels are created, stardust and eyes and lions and love, God knows which ones will betray Her.

She sees Lucifer, vainglorious and proud, leading an army against Her.  _ Morningstar _ , they will call him, for the way he rises like the sun, and will Fall like the brightest comet streaking against the black pitch sky. She sees a third of Her children taking up arms against their siblings for a cause they are not certain they understand. 

She sees Michael with a sword and Gabriel with a trumpet, and a host of others fighting for Heaven. She mourns for the creation of Evil, the loss of their siblings, but knows that for her Plan, there must be free will. Choices. If Her angels choose to rebel? So be it.

However. There is one angel, She knows, who is different. Crowley - or the being who will one day be Crowley, and is now known by another, more holy name - will be the first to taste bitter regret. He will Fall, by choice all his own, and will hate himself for it where others will preen with self-righteous anger. The Fallen will all be made cruel from the rending of Her Light from their hearts, ashen wings bloody and broken, but the Seraph-who-will-be-Crowley will choose not to be.

Oh, he’ll be capable of cruelty. No demon will get by without dirtying their hands. But he will choose kindness more often than not despite four-letter words. He will love Her even as he will curse Her name; one day, the ache in his chest will be soothed by another, whom She has not created yet.

_ Healer,  _ She says, plucking starlight from the Earth’s core and crafting him eyes of gold with it,  _ Protector of humanity. You will do great things, My child, though it will cause you strife. I must cast you out in order for the Plan to work. You will be rewarded for it. Some day. _

He does not hear this; there is not yet any life in the lanky frame, the firelight hair, the star-streaked wings. God touches his chest, empty for now, and names him:  _ Raphael. _

* * *

_ Raphael _ , God says, not at the beginning, but when all is still quiet,  _ A favor? _

“Yes, Lord?” Raphael’s ethereal hands are covered in glittering iron and helium. Nebula blue paints his wildfire hair. One day there will be artists with paintbrushes stuck between their teeth who will wear his look of gleeful focus. 

_ Your wings,  _ She says,  _ Show me. _

Raphael does without question; he spreads open six wings, swirling with the cosmos of yet unborn galaxies, in colors unknown but to angels and certain species of mantis shrimp. He feels warmth as an ethereal hand gentles over them. There is no pain as She plucks a single, golden feather from the pinions. 

_ Thank you. _

Curiosity grapples in his chest and gets the best of him. “What is it for?” he asks.

He senses rather than sees her smile.

_ Your heart,  _ is all She says, and though he does not understand, Raphael gets the vague feeling he is being teased. 

* * *

Raphael wipes stardust from his brow as he enters the Kingdom of Heaven again. It’s been quite some time (though not  _ so  _ much, as time hasn’t been invented yet, and the world is only a handful of days old). He and Michael stay mostly in the sky, crafting wonders for Her creations. It’s quiet, and unobtrusive, and gives him the freedom to...experiment. He rather likes experimenting.

In Heaven, things are busy. Loud. Stark white and colorless. 

There are rather more angels in Heaven than before. God had created a Hierarchy, for She has a Plan that will require a lot of manpower from the Host. Raphael, a Seraph, and among the oldest of angels, has been off creating stars and galaxies and nebulas, for God had seen the constellations in gold flake that dotted his skin and marveled at his creativity.

(God did not give him an imagination; he made one all on his own.  _ Oh,  _ She thought as the first question breached his lips,  _ Aren’t you a curious one?  _ God did not play favorites, but She knew to keep an all-seeing eye on him)

Raphael loves Heaven, though he’s already itching to return to the stars. There is a vague sketch in his mind of a galaxy with twin suns circling each other that he  _ aches  _ to get started on, and Michael had agreed to let him go a bit wild with the color scheme. Michael never agrees to  _ anything _ .

For now, though, he is at peace, watching the hustle and bustle of busy angels preparing for what the whispers call a  _ garden _ . So taken with his surroundings is he that he doesn’t notice the four-winged, glowing being of ineffable light barreling through the common space until it knocks the metaphorical wind out of him.

“Oh!” The other angel blurts, “I’m so sorry - do forgive me. Haven’t quite got the hang of things around here.”

Raphael turns with a reprimand on his tongue - calm, because any angel he does not recognize must be new, and forgiveness is the ichor in their veins - and falters. 

It’s a Cherub, one of Her more recent forays into a power structure. Those whom Michael says will have a very specific job to play. And this Cherub is one of the most beautiful creations Raphael has yet witnessed. 

“You’re new?” He already knows the answer, but Raphael wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t question. The angel starts prattling some long-winded answer that makes Raphael’s metaphorical eyebrows raise. 

He frowns slightly; there is something off about this Cherub. Every angel that Crowley knows is painted with gold, a Holy anointment marking them with Her favor. It’s in the pinfeathers of his wings and glows like molten ore from his eyes, of the same make as the celestial steel forged into flaming swords. 

This angel, however, seems to have none. The form itself is rather plain; it hasn’t decided on a human form yet, here in Heaven, and is relying on its Cherubic one. A hundred or so eyes that flicker blue-brown-green blink rapidly, a goat and an eagle and a lion’s head, a wreath of holy fire, all standard make. And yet, Raphael feels a tug in his gut, magnetic, as strong as the iron core that spins in the center of Earth.

The angel asks his name. Raphael tells it. The angel smiles a brilliant, beaming thing, and Raphael, though cursing also hasn’t been invented yet, thinks,  _ Fuck, I’m a goner.  _

The anger sticks out one of its many arms. “I’m - “

“ _ Aziraphale!”  _ A voice like blazing trumpets booms over the square. Gabriel, he recognizes, with a mild flicker of annoyance. Raphael didn’t know angels could flinch, as there hadn’t been much reason to yet, but the Cherub known as Aziraphale does so.

“Bother,” Aziraphale mutters, and then calls out, “ _ Coming, Gabriel!”  _

It turns back to Raphael with an apologetic shrug. “So sorry, I’m running late. Lovely to meet you!”

And then it’s gone, and Raphael feels that pull sharpen into something...not bad, exactly, but not great either. Portentous, almost.

He wonders. 

* * *

The next time Raphael sees the Cherub Aziraphale is just before the start of Eden, and even closer to the Fall, although they are all blissfully unaware of that.

He and Michael are in the crowd as God bestows upon the Guardians of Eden flaming swords with which to protect the Garden and, with it, Her most important creation: Man. 

Gabriel is there, watching with eyes of amethyst and an almost painfully cheerful smile. Next to him stands the Cherub that has so mystified Raphael; shorter than Gabriel, though his rank is much higher, fidgeting hands twisted shyly in his gold-edged robes. He’s chosen a more human-esque form now, all pale skin and wispy curls. Four wings flicker with the ghosts of his true form: lion, goat, eagle, in rapid succession. 

He, too, is smiling. It’s a warmth that not even the hottest sun can exude, butter-soft and gleaming. 

Raphael watches as God distributes the swords to the four Cherubs charged as Guardians. Uriel is barely recognizable from the early days, a hauty, blank canvas as they step forward to receive the flaming gift. The other two, he doesn’t know their names, and doesn’t particularly care to learn them. They are both stoic with the gravity of their assignments, shouldering the weight of the garden before it has been finished.

And Aziraphale -

Aziraphale, when he is called forth,  _ Angel of the Eastern Gate,  _ bounds forward like a damn puppy. Excitement is writ plain across that earnest face, and Raphael feels his lips twitch. He is the last, and the crowd disperses around the awed expression of a young Cherub holding the flaming sword tight in his grip.

The pull tugs at him, an invisible chain sending him inexorably towards the Cherub’s gravity. Raphael starts towards the angel, and is stopped by a hand on his ethereal shoulder.

“Starmaker!” 

It’s Lucifer, radiant and handsome as always. There is that bright smile, a little too wide, too charming. Whereas Gabriel’s was forced cheer, this is more careful, hiding a certain sharpness to it. His skin is painted with streaks of gold, comets on pale skin. 

Behind him are three others that Crowley recognizes, yet can’t name. The one just to the left of Lucifer’s shoulder has straight black hair and blue eyes, with fuzzy gold flecks hovering around them. Their expression is grave; Crowley isn’t sure he likes them.

“We have some concerns about these new creations,” Lucifer says, all gentle worry and beautiful, wide doe-eyes, “Aren’t you curious? Come, join us for a chat.”

He questions. 

* * *

There is a War. He Falls.

It hurts. 

* * *

Everything is different, After. The Fall left them smoking and grief-ridden, wings charred coal black and missing two pairs. For the first time, they know suffering. They know pain. Crawley is given a new form - a serpent - with which to cause mischief, misery, and Lucifer, vindictive, names him. 

He hates every bit of it. 

Up on the surface, laying belly-flat in the cool grass, it’s a little easier to handle. Cool air soothes the sulfur burns, and once or twice the Serpent of Eden finds himself dozing off in the underbrush. One can get used to a world like this. That is, if one wasn’t under strict orders to cause some trouble, upon pain of discorporation that comes with failure. 

The thing is, Crawley remembers. He watches the Cherub tend to the garden, equally thrilled and dismayed that he will have to make trouble for him as well as the humans. Aziraphale is awed by every new thing, from birds to ferns to the rivers to the strawberry bush crawling up the Eastern gate. It’s a curiosity that reminds Crawley of -

Well. Himself. 

The thought rankles. 

The business with the apple goes down smooth as honey. Lucifer -  _ Satan _ , as he is known now - will be pleased. Perhaps Crawley can use that favor to argue for a position up here. Anything’s better than the dank, rotten palace that Satan set up for himself and named  _ Hell _ . 

Once it’s all said and done, Crawley can’t help himself. He slithers up the wall, following the tug in his gut, and changes form next to the angel. Maybe just an angel now, since God will not be happy with Her creations being cast from the garden, and may demote him a rank or two. 

_ Angel.  _ He quite likes the ring of that in connection to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale does not, he realizes with a weight like cold lead in his stomach, recognize him. It’s apparent in the shifting weight on bare feet, the mistrustful glances, the curious tilt of the head upon realizing he doesn’t know how to address the man-shaped demon with whom he’s conversing.

But he is polite, dimpling with laughter at Crawley’s poor attempt at a joke, and offers him protection from the rain that they aren’t sure is Holy or not. Aziraphale may not remember him, but something flickers to life in the hollow space of Crawley’s chest.

He wonders if maybe there’s a chance for something...more.

He hopes.

* * *

Before the Garden, or the War, or even before the final shape of Man had been decided on in Her mind, God decides there should be more angels. There will need to be, considering the scope of what She has Planned. 

So She makes Cherubim and Thrones and Dominions, and gives them all specific jobs for the coming world. She makes, knowing what will become of the ones who will grow proud and headstrong, and creates them anyway. She also knows what will become of those who stay, who will love Her and Her creations, who will burn with holy fire in the war ahead. 

And She knows, with no small amount of pride, of two who will walk the line between good and evil, Heaven and Hell. Humanity’s keepers.

Lucifer gains a following; Raphael hangs the stars. God creates. 

_ They will write books,  _ She murmurs, molding light into the outline of a Cherub,  _ You will want to know everything, and you will love them for it. Your siblings will not understand. _

She takes the feather plucked from another angel’s wings and crafts a heart of gold, streaked with an iron will, and mourns for the loneliness it will ring hollow with. 

_ You are different _ , She tells him, though he will not remember,  _ And oh, you’re going to be a lot of trouble. Naughty boy, you.  _ She taps him on the vaguely nose-shaped bit.

_ But you will be kind. You will love so wholeheartedly, and he will need that. Love him well, child.  _

Finally, She breathes Life into the Cherub, and watches hazel eyes blink open with newborn sentience. The first thing he does is smile; a wobbly thing, like a fawn taking its first momentous steps. She names him, the last angel, the Cherub who will be a Principality and who will consort with a demon, after the one who shed a feather for his heart:  _ Aziraphale.  _

**Author's Note:**

> I love the idea of Aziraphale and Crowley meeting in Heaven but one not remembering the other, and I also am super interested by the Raphael theories (and the ones where Raphael and Aziraphale used to be the same angel), so here’s a little musing on all that.  
(About halfway through I realized how often I compared angels to being siblings with each other and honestly I don’t have a way to fix that in this narrative so I’m really going with things changing after they Fall or something. Uh. Anyway.)  
Let me know what you think? I've never delved into biblical musings before.


End file.
